“Four o'clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front.”
“Till then,” said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.
As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on, fancying many a strange conceit about the “pension” and its inhabitants. At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parnasse.
I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen; at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and gardens, for miles away.
“Saprelotte!” said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a blunt son of Alsace,—“saprelotte! we have come to the end of the world here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?”
“The Rue de Mi-Carême.”
“Mi-Carême? I 'd rather you lived there than me; that name does not promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?”
As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of their inferiors.
Few of the larger houses were inhabited. Large placards, “à louer,” on the gateways or the broken railings of the garden, set forth the advantages of a handsome residence, situated between court and garden; but the falling roofs and broken windows were in sad discordance with the eulogy.
The unaccustomed noise of wheels, as we went along, drew many to the doors to stare at us, and in the gathering groups I could mark the astonishment so rare a spectacle as a cabriolet afforded in these secluded parts.